


Autophobia

by smilingcrescent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Autophobia, Dark, Dark Harry, Gen, Mental Health Fest, Mental Health Issues, Post-War, Psychological Trauma, Psychosis, Scary, Suspense, horror story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 08:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2184483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilingcrescent/pseuds/smilingcrescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry thinks he’s possessed, but nobody believes him. His mental condition deteriorates after being cursed, and violent thoughts plague him.</p><p><i>Excerpt:</i><br/>Something’s wrong with my head. Harry almost said. The words teetered on the tips of his teeth, rocking him back into the wall. I don’t feel like myself, he wanted to tell them. He had told them, repeatedly over the past several years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Mental Health issue:** Autophobia, anxiety, depression, possible psychosis  
>  **Warnings:** dark fic. contemplating loss of self, descriptions of blood (though not graphic), and similar to canon- violence.
> 
> Many thanks to chuffed4angst for the stellar prompt! Originally written anonymously for (hp-mhealthfest [on LiveJournal here](http://hp-mhealthfest.livejournal.com/29686.html)) (for the Mental Health Fest).

_Something’s wrong with my head._ Harry almost said. The words teetered on the tips of his teeth, rocking him back into the wall. _I don’t feel like myself,_ he wanted to tell them. He _had_ told them, repeatedly over the past several years.

It was a familiar pattern, but not a comforting one. He sat in the waiting room of St. Mungo’s for the umpteenth time, watching the Harassed-Healers stare at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. It was the fourth time in as many weeks, and this, too, worried him. He closed his eyes. All those times, all those years were starting to blur together. What else could he say? _What’ll it take for you to believe me?_

“Mr. Potter? We’re ready to see you now.” One matronly witch said. Her professionalism was remarkable considering that she was the one who’d told him last time; _‘You need to give yourself more time, my dear. You ought to consider talking with a friend or colleague you trust.’_

Away from prying eyes, she waved her wand check Harry’s vitals. She scribbled busily on a parchment, summoned a file with a wave of her hand, and sighed at him. “Mr. Potter,” she said severely, “perhaps it is not my place to tell you this, but as your Mediwitch, I must inform you that you are grossly underweight. The Auror department—” 

Harry’s head swam. “That’s not why I’m here. It isn’t—it’s not important. Madam Waylace, I—I’m possessed.” He blinked several times, trying to catch his rising emotions. Tried to look past the rims of black at the corner of his eyes. “ _Something is in my head._ ” He said fiercely, willing her to understand. 

Madam Waylace stared at him. “Mr. Potter.” She said firmly. “We had you in just last week checking for curse damage. The week before was Magical Maladies, and the month before you reported a history with Artifact Accidents of a Dark nature. None of our specialists could find any sign of an outward presence, be it accident induced, parasitical, or fever-dreams. What would you like us to check for this time?” She asked crisply. 

Harry held her gaze stubbornly. “I know what it feels like to be possessed.” Convincing her was hardly any different than working with the Auror department, like filling out a report concerning a crime he’d discovered on a hunch. And trying to explain how he got there to his supervisor. In spite of differences in opinions with the rule-bound higher ups, Harry Potter was known for his keen senses in the field. He’d turned in a fair number of Dark Wizards even as a junior Auror which just proved to Harry how his insticts were still right. He was right about this too, he knew it. 

“I have proof.” He insisted. “Last night—” the panic welled in his stomach, spiraling up his throat and into his mouth, choking him. 

“Yes?” the Healer asked, softly this time. 

“I lost control.” He said just as quietly. He shut his eyes, pushing the terror down. _Harry was going to kill him. The wizard, who moments before had been staring him down, spitting filthy insults, stared up at Harry blankly. He’d done just as Harry had asked; dropped his wand and stepped right into the stunning spell. It was as though Harry’d cast the Imperius._ “I apprehended a wizard with more force than necessary, and I—I didn’t care at all.”

Madam Waylace put the parchment down. “I think we would have heard about something like that. If you’re concerned now, I think it shows a remarkable amount of empathy, especially for—” 

“I musthavecasttheImperiusCurse. Without meaning to, I mean. Wordlessly, too. It was just—I would never have done that.” 

Madam Waylace’s lips thinned. She held out her hand. “My Oaths of Confidentiality only go so far, you do realize.” She said dryly. “Present your wand, and I shall cast Priori Incantatem. In the unlikely event that you have indeed done this thing, well…you know the procedure better than I, surely.” 

Harry nodded wordlessly. He gave her the Holly-and-Phoenix wand, thinking of how Voldemort had cast just that curse on countless people… He watched in numbed silence. 

His wand did not betray its secrets though. He supposed that like young Tom Riddle, it had been sheer act of will—not a spell then. But still, what he had done was not forgivable. 

Madam Waylace started to talk about how Harry ‘musn’t be so hard on yourself,’ and, ‘you must have been mistaken.’ 

“Aside from your weight,” Waylace said, “I see nothing wrong with you. But I shall have Healer Lancelot look at you. Please wait.” 

Harry watched her go, shaken and unsatisfied. 

Healer Lancelot walked in, his expression placid. “Hello again Harry. How are you feeling?”

Harry shot a glare at him. “Not bloody well, except you lot are determined to say there’s _nothing wrong with me._ ” 

“And what appears to be the problem?” 

“I’ve been possessed.” Harry barely managed to avoid shouting. “What else do you want me to say?”

Lancelot nodded, unperturbed. “How long have you felt this way? When did your symptoms first appear?” 

_Every day since the Battle. Every time I look in the empty darkness of the woods, and in the quiet of my mind. Ever since I knew about the Horcrux._

Aloud, he said, “I don’t know.” 

“Well, I’m sure you’re aware that the Wizarding World has seen some major advancements in the Healing field. With many of your classmates having gone off to medi-school, seeking outside treatment for various war-related traumas, psychosis, and—”

Harry, fighting to stay calm, interrupted him with a hallow laugh. “Are you telling me I’m crazy? Well, isn’t that a laugh…we’re right back to where we started in the middle of the war. But I wasn’t crazy then, and I’m not crazy now. Just because you can’t see the danger, doesn’t mean it’s—” 

“We have done extensive tests. You remain unhappy because of all of these unfounded fears, and quite frankly, I think you have some psychological issues to sort through. I did not say you’re crazy.” He said firmly. “Having problems and being mentally crippled are two decisively different things, don’t you agree? Now, the Healers and I have been discussing your case, and we’d like to put forward a diagnosis.” 

Harry leaned forward, heart racing. “Yes?” 

“Autophobia.” Lancelot said softly, his professional expression breaking into a compassionate frown. “It’s become rather apparent that your anxiety has spiraled out of control. You react badly to unexpected or unexplained noises, the detached sensation you describe yourself in when alone, as well as physical symptoms. Madam Waylace reports that you have been suffering heart palpitations which have not decreased in the past weeks. You hyperventilate, and you react very badly indeed to being left alone in the exam room. You do not trust yourself, either. Does this sound accurate to you, Mister Potter?” 

Harry hesitated. “Auto…alone. You think this is _fear of being alone?_ ” He asked incredulously. He shook his head. “Absolutely not. I don’t think that’s right at all. I—I can handle being alone. It’s just—” the room swam in front of him, threatening to plunge into darkness. 

“In the literal sense of the term,” the Healer said carefully, “you have an irrational fear of yourself. You understand that we have Confidentiality Oaths,” Lancelot continued gently, “but your role as an Auror means that we are required to report any illness, etc, that might affect your position. It hasn’t gotten to that point yet,” he said quickly, “but your supervisor has begun to question us about _paranoia._ ” 

“They said Moody was paranoid.” Harry replied stubbornly. “They did. And he was the best Auror—” 

“Please read this pamphlet.” Lancelot interrupted again. “And consider seeing a specialist.” 

All at once, Harry’s conviction drained away. He was shocked into numbness, and barely remembered any of what the Healers said on his way out.

* * *

“A package for you, Harry.” Dawlish called from his desk. “Just came in. Were you expecting anything?” 

Harry looked up from his report. “What? No, no, I—”

Across the room, something _cracked_ against the walls. There was a shrill shriek and a burst of laughter as a shower of golden sparks sprinkled over a house-plant, and Harry shot a shield spell in that direction. The blue glow was so sudden and strong that it knocked the secretary, Miss Anson, into her desk. She stopped laughing immediately. 

Harry had managed to freeze the sparks, but that seemed rather beside the point. Hillam, the only other junior-Auror in the vicinity, winced. Dawlish was in full-lecture mode, but none of the words registered with Harry. It was all noise. 

His hands twitched. Finally, he muttered a, “Yes sir,” when it was expected, and sank into the nearest chair. He couldn’t think. 

Someone walked forward, footsteps echoed across his senses. He was hyper-aware of everyone’s position. 

“Are you ok?” Miss Anson breathed, her face pink with embarrassment. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—I mean, well, I thought you knew it was my birthday. It was…a card. Just a message, you know…err, Harry?” She fussed with something in her hands. “Um. It’s all right, by the way. I’m fine.” 

Harry shrugged. “Yes.” He gestured at the house-plant. “That was what the shield spell was for.” 

She beamed at him. “I’m glad you thought I was worth protecting, but, errr, I doubt it’ll be necessary in the future. Cheer up! Why don’t you have your package now?” She pushed the brown parcel into his hands and winked. “Maybe it’s from your sweetheart.” 

Harry ducked his head and looked at the package. _Pathetic._ He thought acidly. _Can’t even tell a celebration charm from a curse now, can we? How far the Golden Boy has fallen…_ He ran a hand through his hair.

“Wonder what it is.” He said aloud. Everyone in the Auror Department thought he was off-his-rocker, did they? Well, he could open a package. Even if it didn’t have a return address. 

His fingers shook as he opened it, remembering other unmarked packages in his life. _The cloak. Sirius’s present. Draco Malfoy’s attempt to Curse Dumbledore…_ He flicked his wand and the brown-paper fell away. It was a book, leather-bound and with dull-ivory paper. _Facing your demons_ , the title read. 

Harry resisted the urge to cast a Curse-Revealing charm on it. He didn’t put up a shield, and he didn’t remind anyone that he wasn’t expecting a gift. Slowly, very slowly, he waved his hand over the cover as though testing the heat. 

“I’m not paranoid.” He said under his breath. 

_She slipped. The package fell out of its paper, touching her gloved hands by the slightest margin. There was an eerie lift of the wind, a hollow, voiceless scream that trembled on her lips, and she began to rise. Gracefully, beautifully. Her hair spread out like a soft halo, and her face relaxed. Her mouth opened in a silent scream_

_Spinning_

_round,round,round, and--_

The book screamed. Harry shouted, his hands ghosting over the cover with another powerful charm on his lips. He wordlessly transfigured the brown paper, trying to encompass it again, but in his haste, he touched it. Just one little finger, the same as Katie. 

it hurt. just as badly as his scar ever had.

He didn’t know where he was. He watched the world drop away, and saw the blue-fire that raced up his hand and under his robes. It curled in his blood, and he thought he knew then what Dumbledore must have felt with his blackened arm. Then Harry opened his mouth, and he cast the spell that burned through his mind.

A piercing, white sound filled his ears, obliterating all other senses while Fiendfyre erupted from his wand. In seconds, the book was incinerated, the desk a pillar of smoke. Snakes spiraled thin and long, licking, tasting, reaching out for the next victim—

And he pulled it in. Harry Potter, who couldn’t remember the words he’d said to call the fire to life, who didn’t even know the incantation for Fiendfyre, controlled the flames. He screamed, remembering Crabbe before he died. The whole Room of Requirement was reduced to cinders in minutes, and he’d—

(it hurt.)

Dawlish wrapped his arms around Harry’s chest, lifting him up and over the smoking rubble, only to slam him down and put up a shield charm that could have rivaled Harry’s. He was shouting orders as he tore the sleeve away. 

Harry couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. 

“Harry? Harry can you hear us?” 

After an age, icy relief washed over him as someone applied a cooling charm, and some kind of salve? _What—_

“What was in the package? Miss Anson reported a book, but your Incendio Charm seems to have done away with the evidence.” Dawlish said rather too loudly. 

Harry’s head was swimming. Incendio? But Harry couldn't speak, couldn't move. Harry gasped silently, and began to say _'I shouldn't have touched it... Incendio? I thought—'_ but no words came out.

Around him, his colleagues stared and tried to reach for him. 'Don't touch me! It might have had a subtle curse-- what if I'm cursed to kill whoever touches me?' Harry snatched his hand away. 

But they didn't hear him. Two of the Aurors bent down together, putting their arms under Harry's. The Aurors lifted Harry to his feet, and Harry thought at once that he would die from the pain.

He jerked wildly, his mouth opening to scream. It was like the thinnest, sharpest of blades were being thrust into his body through his soles. Harry tried not to put any weight on his feet, unconsciously leaning into the two men who supported him. Blood pooled around his feet, making strange designs on the ground. There was something wet and shiny on the back of his hand-- the hand that had touched the book. But the pain was too much, and Harry blacked out. 

* * *


	2. fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry thinks he’s possessed, but nobody believes him. His mental condition deteriorates after being cursed, and violent thoughts plague him.

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Potter. Can you hear me? You're in St. Mungo’s." it was Madam Waylace, bone weary and concerned as she put three fingers to his forehead. It felt like ice. “You’ve been here for two days, and we’ll keep you under observation for the next several days. We believe the curse has been lifted—or at least the worst of it. The brands have been removed, and any rate, and all signs suggest that you’ve recovered your ability to speak.” Her calm manner flickered at that last, as though irritated with Harry.

 

“Whatever possessed you to touch it?” a familiar voice demanded. Dawlish? No—too young. Hillam, then. “You’re usually so paranoid around things like that.”

 

The young man was immediately hushed, and Madam Waylace hovered over him. “Can you hear us?”

 

Harry opened his eyes. He felt little better than before—but at least no one was stabbing him, magically or no. He opened his mouth experimentally, hissing as he touched the sides of the bed. “I was trying to bind it shut. The book.”

 

Hillam smiled wryly. “Playing the hero again, then? You know if we get any suspicious mail, you’re supposed to give it to—”

 

“Gentlemen.” Waylace said severely. “Please. I’m sure he’ll hear about it when he returns to work. I do believe your duties are fulfilled, Auror? You can report to the Head of your Department that Harry Potter is awake now, can’t you?”

 

It suddenly felt very, very important that Hillam not leave. Harry looked shiftily to Waylace and then around the room. “Has—”

 

“You have other visitors waiting for you.” The healer fixed the other Auror with a meaningful gaze, “Hillam merely wished to give you a message, and he shall be out within minutes, isn’t that right?”

 

Harry was strongly reminded of Madam Pomfrey, ushering Hermione and Ron out of the Hospital Wing when he was a child. He fought a smile.

 

“Er.” Hillam stuffed his hands in his robe pockets. “They couldn’t find fault with you, as usual, and the office is all in one piece. The only one worse-for-wear is you, so, uh, get well soon. And all that.”

 

Relieved, Harry smiled. “Well, it’s a good thing you can see the truth then, isn’t it? You remind them I’m only human, will you? Don’t let me get away with what anyone—”

 

“That will be all.” Madam Waylace said serenely. “Thank you for the message. Now that you are awake, it’s time that we give you a special blended potion—and after that, let’s hear what you remember of the Cursed Artifact. We’ll have you back to your usual cheery self in no time.”

 

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest. “Remind Dawlish that I make mistakes.”

 

“Don’t need to; he knows.” Hillam said on his way out. “You’re still _golden._   Don’t you worry.”

 

Was that mockery, or the truth? For an uncomfortable minute, Harry really couldn’t say. Then an endless stream of Healers and MediWitches trailed in and out of his room, filling the silence with questions that all had answers. There wasn’t a suspicious glance his way, and this only made his suspicions grow.

 

Harry knew it, as the day wound to a close. It wasn’t a Curse from the Death Eaters or any other Dark Wizard—it was a present. A gift for himself…whatever lurked in the shadows of his mind was stirring, and soon (very, very soon), it would wake.

 

He took his chance when Healer Lancelot came into his room. Harry threw himself forward, heedless of the pain in his hands when he leaned against them. “Healer.” He said seriously, something like terror clinging to his voice, “I know who sent the book. It was me—or whatever’s attached itself to me. I…I’m going to do something terrible, and I can’t—”

 

“Mr. Potter…are you saying that you sent the package to yourself?” Healer Lancelot removed his glasses and began to polish them with a cloth. He seemed remarkably steady despite the dire situation.

 

Harry’s throat worked. He opened his mouth to say ‘yes,’ but nothing came out. Harry felt a headache coming on. He had the oddest sensation that he was looking out his eyes as though from a long tunnel. “That’s ridiculous. That’s not what I meant.” Harry’s lips formed an unfamiliar smile.

 

There was an awkward silence. “Are you…retracting your statement, then?”

 

The door opened, nearly slamming against the wall until something stopped it. Harry suspected a built-in cushioning charm.

 

“Harry!” Hermione burst in and flung her arms around him. Not far behind her, Ron entered.

 

“We came loads of times, mate, but you were out of it. Asleep, I mean.” Ron told him earnestly.

 

In between polite exchanges, Harry found himself examining his own responses to their concern, wondering if he was just going through the motions of being happy to see his friends. Did he feel satisfied? Maybe all these signs were showing was that everything had gone as planned—if he’d planned it at all. Which he hadn’t.

 

Harry felt his breathing constrict even as he spoke in a soft, calm voice. “This is Healer Lancelot. He’s seen me off and on. It seems he’s seen most Aurors at some point or other.” Harry felt his mouth stretch into that unfamiliar smile again. Was he being…antagonistic toward the Healer? That wasn’t good…if Harry made it look like a latent part of the curse—if people thought it was the second half of the cursed book, it would be ages before anyone started to catch on. If Harry Potter, the Chosen One, cursed a Healer, everyone would think it was just an accident. They’d never think him evil, not after putting away so many Dark Wizards. Not until it was too late.

 

“Are you often injured?” Hermione asked, chewing her lip and looking at the Healer with guilty concern.

 

“Oh, he thinks I’ve got this Fear of Being Alone. Don’t you, Healer?” Was the old defiance, that urge to turn his nose up at authority his? He refused to let the Healer simply watch, or leave, and Harry wondered if he’d somehow prevented the man from retreating.

 

“I think you have Autophobia, yes…Fear of being alone is one way to put it. Or an irrational fear of oneself.” Lancelot didn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes. “Have you ever talked about it to your friends?”

 

Harry’s laugh was bitter and dark. “What was that you said about an Oath to Confidentiality? Well, Healer. Are you telling all my visitors now?”

 

“Are you feeling out of control, Mister Potter? Or are you being hostile because I approved your return to work?” The Healer met his gaze at last.

 

“You’re doing this on purpose. Questioning me in front of them. Do you believe what I said then? Are they your security in case I snap and take you out?” Harry leaned forward.

 

“Slow down there, mate.” Ron sounded alarmed. His eyes darted back and forth between the Healer and Hermione. “Fear of being alone _or_ irrational fear of yourself? That’s rubbish. How can you not know which—I mean—if Harry’s afraid of something at all, really. He’s probably just being cautious. High-profile Auror like him’s bound to sound a little paranoid from the outside. But that’s what keeps them alive, right? I mean—”

 

Hermione cut him off. “I think we need to take everything a little slower. Harry, tell us about the book. That’s what it was, right?”

 

Harry looked at his hands. There was no sign of the fire, nor any brands. “I transfigured the wrapping back into a shield, but my hand slipped. Nicked it with my little finger.”

 

“What was the book called? Do you remember the sensation of it touching you?”

 

_Hermione, thank you…_ Harry thought. Maybe she could pick up the pieces, sort through it all. “Didn’t quite see.” Harry lied. “Green leather, old pages. No card or return address.”

 

Hermione hummed softly. “How did it feel? Why did you know to put up a shield at all?”

 

“A feeling. It felt hot, is all.” He winced. “Did you figure out the curse? How long ‘till I’m better?” This little question brought on an immediate rush of hasty assurances, pleas to ‘take it easy,’ and a long, complicated explanation that Lancelot and Hermione only bothered participating in.

 

“How’s it feel?” Ron asked sympathetically. “Do you reckon it was a poison, or a curse? The papers went on and on about those bloody footprints, you know. Something about a Savior’s Curse.”

 

Harry’s consciousness began to slip. He couldn’t follow the words any longer.

 

“—will send you sweets, mate.”

 

“Let him rest.”

 

“Please do inform me if—”

 

When he closed his eyes, all Harry saw was black, and a ghostly imprint of fire.

 

 

Harry woke in the dead of night. Harry threw back the covers and crept out of bed. His feet no longer bled, but he tread lightly. Sneaking out of St. Mungo’s was easy, with all of Harry’s practice. The wards couldn’t be set right, if they let possibly dangerous patients wander about like that, so out he was with hardly any effort.

 

He walked into the darkness with nothing more than his wand. One step, and he apparated to –his home. _To get what was his_ The cloak, the only Deathly Hallow he’d kept. He was a ghost in his own house, drifting in and out without looking at anything. The cloak and his own version of Hermione’s beaded bag—a simple non-detectible, expansion-charmed-bag was all he’d need.

 

As Harry hunted for a spot to hide, someplace to stay while he did his own research on his unknown passenger, he felt uneasy. A cold wash of anxiety overtook him, and he almost thought he couldn’t do it.

 

_Was_ he afraid to be alone? Or was he afraid of what Dark Magic he might get up to with no one to put the stops down for him? He touched his forehead lightly with two fingers, and returned to the books from his bag.

 

 He’d find an answer to this. He had to.

 

 

‘ _He’s paranoid. Thinks he’s been possessed, and doesn’t even trust us to notice what he sees as symptoms. Just what are we supposed to do?_ ’ The sounds from his house were disconcertingly clear.

 

Harry sat with his knees drawn up, listening stoically to the wireless. He’d set the frequency himself, left the thing in his house, knowing that he could use it to listen in on anyone sent to search for him there. The Horcrux hunt taught him how to set wards, and Harry knew how to keep even Ron and Hermione out, so he was secure enough in his tree, listening to them talk.

 

‘ _He’s just taking some space. You know how rumors and accusations get to him! He’s just trying to prove…_ ’ then Hermione stopped, rustled with something for a bit. ‘ _But what if he_ is _afraid of himself? You don’t think he’d try to…_ ’

 

‘ _To top ‘imself? No. Not after all we’ve been through. He’d’ve done it by now, don’t you think?_ ’

 

Hermione put the thing (probably a book, Harry reasoned) down. ‘ _I don’t know…I’ve been reading up about depression. They say that suicide doesn’t usually happen when disabling depression is at its worst, you know, but when the depression begins to lift. That’s when the person can regain more of their energy. But they don’t always recover from the feeling of hopelessness, and without the lethargy to hamper them…_ ’ she sounded troubled.

 

‘ _We’ll find him. Talk him out of it._ ’ Ron said, and after a long silence, they left.

 

 

Harry sank into a feeling of nervousness. He raked his mind for recollections of Snape and Dumbledore’s last lesson from the _Pensieve_ , tried to see if he was really any different. Wouldn’t he _know_ if he was alone in his mind? Wouldn’t it feel different?

 

But Harry felt the same as he always had, only worse. He got angrier, and the murderous thoughts just wouldn’t go away. _Life was supposed to get better. I’m supposed to help people,_ he thought uselessly.

 

Was he standing outside Hermione and Ron’s place because he wanted to talk, or because he knew they were a threat? Ron and Hermione. Horcurx experts, if there were such a thing. They would be a danger to whatever was possessing Harry.

 

_There’s always the Skin Flaying Curse. The merits, of course, being that the victim can live for hours with the right application. Feel horrendous pain, knowing that it would be the death of them, but be made to linger in torment knowing that they could never, ever walk out of the situation alive._

 

Or he could suck out the oxygen from their house and suffocate them…who would ever know? _Or better—fill the house with pure oxygen so their own cooking fire would set everything ablaze. Even static electricity could set off a fire storm to rival Fiendfyre._

 

Harry cringed away from the thoughts. He didn’t want to murder his two best friends.

 

_Why not? They deserve it…abandoning you for each other. You never_ talk _anymore. Not like old times._

 

Harry turned around, half-expecting to see the memory of Tom Riddle, or the hazy figures produced by the locket. But there was nothing to see…just a trail of bloody footprints in the snow.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

Harry waited for Hermione to step away for a bath. Ron would be alone in his study, playing a game of chess or looking over the Joke Shop’s earnings. He’d be dead in a matter of minutes, giving Harry plenty of time to set a trap for Hermione.

 

No. He’d find Ron, take him by the shoulders, and tell him everything. Ron wouldn’t panic—he’d help. He could make the anxiety go away…and Hermione would come back and--

 

Hermione, who wouldn’t suspect a thing, coming out from a relaxing bath. She might not even have her wand. Just as Harry’s mother hadn’t, fleeing into his nursery all those years ago….But then again, Hermione might prove more of a challenge than that.

 

Harry let himself in, tip-toing through the house before slowly— oh-so-slowly— pushing the door to the study open. He was about to call to Ron, who was sitting just where Harry had—

 

But Ron wasn’t at the desk. His back was to the door. He was…what was he doing?

 

“Tell him we’ve found Harry and to bring backup.” Ron told his Patronus, a friendly-looking Otter.

 

_It’s changed to match Hermione’s,_ Harry had time to think, and it made him smile.

 

The animal blinked, and Ron gestured for it to leave. “Come on.”

 

 

Harry did a wordless locking spell, and held Ron at wand-point in the blink of an eye. His Auror training kept him sharp, faster than his old friend. It would be ridiculously easy to take him down. Two words, and it would be over; a compromise, even…not a lingering death, not a painful one. Quick and easy.

 

“Harry, don’t!” Hermione’s voice carried through the door, and Harry wavered.

 

He felt sick, like the whole world was spinning.

 

Ron had his wand raised. His eyes were wide and afraid, but his jaw was set.

 

Harry wet his lips. _He’d tell them everything._  He thought. Then his stomach squirmed again, rolling and hot. _Is it really so bad to never be alone?_ Harry wondered. The presence stirred, and once again, Harry felt the pain of being sliced open again and again. His feet, his hands…his forehead, too. He bled. Pain, anger, and adrenaline mixed.

 

(he felt drained. all emotion seeped out of him, and he was empty. alone.)

 

“Good evening, Ron. Bow to death.” He smiled sharply. “The Boy Who Lived is _mine._ ”

 

Ron and Harry cast their spells.

 

_Never be alone again…_ Harry thought, and everything went black.

 

 

(end)

 

**Author's Note:**

> This one was a challenge to write...there is surprisingly little information on Autophobia on the internet, so my main sources were actually for borderline-personality-disorder, and drawing on panic-attack experiences. Actually, it was really, really helpful to sit down and write what that feels like. What a surprise. Hope you, er, 'enjoyed' the writing.


End file.
